Black And White
by thebadwolf
Summary: An Eighth Doctor story from the Time War, and about as fanwank as I dare to stray...


Black And White

An Eighth Doctor Story

By

Russ Flinn

© Russell Flinn 2005

It looked so frail, a feather caught in a hurricane, and yet the blue box, miniscule in amongst the titanic savagery of the Battle of Gallifrey, flitted and spun in patterns that only the fool would see as random and without purpose.

There was a fiercely determined pilot at the helm, deftly outmanoeuvring the onslaught, his TARDIS twitching its way out of the path of rocketry and laser, a mind so perfectly synchronised with his vehicle that the two were almost indefinable as separate entities at times such as this. The wooden hull bore only the scars of a few lucky strikes, the faint glow from the windows making the whole seem as a lantern swaying in the darkness of space.

The light burning within was the very fire of a man's passion, his determination to see this conflict end.

He had witnessed so much over the past few days, events that had pierced both his hearts with pangs of sadness and regret. Caught up in the fight for their survival, he had seen his people forget themselves, forget their place in the scheme of things, and instead unleash devastation equal in scope and wonder to that of the first great Event that had brought the Universe to life.

A Universe that now looked set to fall, caught in the crossfire between enemies that had sworn over the blood of their dead to see the other vanquished forever.

There was no pride anymore, no patriotism, no love, just murder and mayhem.

The weary, anguished soul inside that intrepid vessel had watched planets boil and burn, seen whole areas of space ripped out of existence leaving only vacuum and debris. He cursed himself that he had even put his name to some of the carnage, aided and abetted in the massacre of worlds.

And yet, there was one last act that not even his generals had dared to contemplate for it would mean an end to all things. To set in motion the final, all-consuming firestorm that could end the Time War, because no war could be waged with both aggressors wiped from every point and time in history. There had never been a conflict won by a corpse, and it felt too much like defeat for his peers to even consider such a wanton act of immolation.

At last, there was pride, now that there was nothing left for them to be proud of.

The Daleks had brought the Time Lords to their knees already, even if Gallifrey was victorious, for they had seen the greatest civilisation in all time smear its face in the blood of others, the Universal kith and kin that the lone pilot's people had sworn to protect.

There was no honour.

But there could be justice.

………………………………………………………………………………….

Within the whirling time-ship, the Doctor was surprised at how nimbly even he could affect evasive tactics with only two hands and providence to guide him.

He had only recently eschewed his uniform, that of a Gallifreyan officer first-class, which was more of a token to appeal to his vanity than any recognition of his military skill. He had despised it for its lack of character, its immaculate lines and cut, the very things that it stood for. He was no soldier, and his participation in the Time War had, at first, been bound by his love of his people.

It was a love soon lost.

By the time he had sworn to defend the Capitol, he had already begun to hear whispered news of the atrocities that had been wrought under the instruction of the President. News that sickened him to his very soul.

Yet still he fought, for there were greater things at stake as the War continued to rage, tearing apart whole systems and putting many innocent species to the sword.

He foresaw a time when the Universe might itself be consumed by the fires that burned throughout the Chronon Conflict. Worse still, he began to lose the distinction between the ruthless determination of the Daleks and his own peoples' will to prevail. He was not sure that either victor would be the same once peace was restored.

With terrible shame, he reckoned the true price of victory, and set to work.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

As his efforts neared completion, he had felt a growing chill within the TARDIS.

Certain functions began to stutter and fail, some seeming almost vindictive in their stubborn refusal to co-operate.

Of course, he had always expected the TARDIS' disapproval, and no matter how often he apologised to her she still maintained her silence. She had even declined his attempts to share minds, so desperate was he for her to comprehend his point of view, and so clear was she in her opposition.

He only hoped that when the time came, she would not make it impossible for him.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

"Okay," the Doctor said aloud, sweeping the tools he had been using off the console with a hollow clatter. There would be time to pick up the pieces later, he hoped.

He glanced up at the time rotor, waiting for some kind of response, expecting something more than just silence.

"All set then, Doctor? Ready to light the blue touchpaper and retire to a safe distance?"

Without turning from the console, the Doctor knew very well the voice at his back, recognising the quality of the smug and insinuating braggard. He felt his spine turn to ice, veins of dread threading through his very body.

Of course, it was quite impossible, but the cold and empty presence he sensed scrutinising his every move had long since made a mockery of the hard and fast concepts of improbability. If there was a way, _he_ had always found it, and if there was not then he had created it from the power of his own insane determination to survive, truly the architect of his own destiny.

Slowly, the Master swaggered into view, bold and bleak, swathed in black so that his ashen face and empty eyes seemed all the more striking. He raised a cigarette to his lips, drawing on it sensuously, savouring the smoke that tumbled from his thick, smirking lips.

"I don't approve of smoking in here, if you don't mind," the Doctor whispered half-heartedly, trying not to be obvious in steadying his trembling hands against the warm reassurance of the TARDIS console.

His unwelcome guest scoffed.

"Always so concerned with your own welfare."

He took the cigarette from his lips and examined it in the soft blue light that struggled to bring any sign of life to his grim visage.

"You'll have noticed by now that the smoke does not extend further than a few inches from me. Or maybe even that there is no odour in the air."

"There's always a stench where you're involved, Master."

"Insults, must we?" The sombre figure shook his head sadly. "Commonsense dictates that I'm not here, surely?"

"And hope wishes it too," the Doctor snapped back, "Yet here you are, same as you ever were. Black and bitter as coffee, and just as prone to give me sleepless nights."

The Master scowled, taking in his rival's appearance with clear disapproval.

"I blame the Byronic look. You were never so poetic. But then Byron was also a man filled with his own demons, rushing headlong towards his own demolition and let the consequences go hang. Perhaps you should take up the opium pipe? Bring yourself a little peace."

The Doctor tried hard to recover his composure, and his standing as captain of his vessel. He would not permit himself to be cowed by this phantom from the past, not when delay could mean the death of all things.

"Not quite a 'phantom', brother Time Lord," the Master smiled.

Startled, the Doctor could barely stammer out his dismay: "That's impossible!"

"What? That I read your thoughts, or that I might even be in there somewhere?" The Master waved an airy hand at the Doctor's curly-headed crown. "Don't worry, my fate is not so very cruel as to be held captive in that moral merry-go-round you call a psyche. I'm merely here at the kind request of your ship. A strictly non-corporeal arrangement, you'll be glad to know, which is why you still have your internal organs safely stowed in your belly."

Despite the truth in the Master's words, the Doctor felt disquiet at the idea of the TARDIS playing such a nasty trick upon him, especially at such a time as this. The sense of betrayal was worse for having come from such an old friend.

The Master smiled, sucking in air as though he could taste the Doctor's anguish and found it good.

He levelled his blank, dead gaze upon the troubled Time Lord's own.

"Ironically, the TARDIS has granted me this brief sojourn into 'the land of the living', and I use the term carefully bearing in mind you're about to change all that."

Almost panic-stricken, feeling as though his sense of reality was being put to the test, the Doctor rounded on his nemesis, eyes blazing with outrage.

"The TARDIS did no such thing. Why would she choose to taunt me like that?"

"Taunt you?" The Master's words broke up into delighted laughter. "Oh dear me, no, Doctor. I'm serving a purpose far more intriguing than that."

The Doctor knew that truth was an unfamiliar ally of the Master, and did little to disguise the scepticism in his reply. "What then?"

The dark spirit relished the unease of the moment, holding his silence for as long as even he could endure.

"It's infinitely more delicious and disturbing than anything you could understand, 'old chum," the Master explained, a cocky throw of his head showing his contempt for the notion of fellowship. "I'm here to act as your conscience."

"Really?" There was derisory sarcasm in the Doctor's exclamation of surprise. "You expect me to believe that there are moral lessons to be learned from you? Of all people!"

His nemesis shrugged off the slur.

"Why not? You first have to know the rules before you can set out to curtail them."

Frustrated, the Doctor swung round to the console, slamming his hands down onto the irregular surface and feeling the pain, and knowing that if that was so acutely vivid then all of this must be real too. He glared up at the lofty arcs and stonework of the ceiling.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he cried, his voice breaking with emotion. "Don't you think this is hard enough without bringing him into it?"

Behind him, the Master playfully cupped an ear.

"And all through the house," he recited, "Not a creature was stirring." The words filled with hate: "Not even a mouse such as you, Doctor…"

Refusing to face his old adversary, the slumped figure of the Doctor rose up, shoulders thrust back in defiance. The Master saw the bloodied knuckles whiten to bone as the Time Lord's hands clung to the console, as if to let go would mean the end of everything he stood for.

"You've no affinity with the plight of the Time Lords. You've even warred alongside the Dalek Empire in the past. Why should you care about the outcome. Or are you hoping to talk me out of all this? One last impotent act of manipulation to avenge yourself against the kith and kin you despise so much."

"Not at all," the Master chuckled, dropping the cigarette and watching it fade into nothing. "I'm here to offer my support. Even, dare I say it, my congratulations?"

His flippancy was almost infuriating the Doctor. Here was the Universe, all of creation, past, present and future, whose fate was about to be decided on the throw of a switch, and yet the Master sauntered and chatted idly as though it was no more to him than the discussion of some fine repast. Which, with his warped lust for power and glory, was exactly how it must seem to him. Deprived of dining on the main course, the wanton Time Lord had merely arrived for the cheese and biscuits, some after-dinner banter as he revelled in destruction.

"The Daleks hold no favour with me," the hollow voice went on. "One can always do to see the competition cut down in the free-market world of universal domination."

The Doctor ran his hands through his thick mane of hair, feeling the perspiration that dampened it, exasperated by the idea that he was simply playing the Master's game in his absence, a proxy dictator about to put billions to fiery death in the name of peace.

Warily, he turned.

"You've seen what's happening," he implored, trying not to look the Master in his vacant, unmoved eyes, "The ground they're gaining. This isn't just about Gallifrey anymore."

All it gained was another verbal gambit from his old opponent.

"No, it's about you. Your ceaseless vanity and posturing. We're not so different under the skin, Doctor. Why else did the High Council allow us to escape all those centuries ago?"

The Master summoned another lit cigarette from the ether, watching the smoke twirl as he had once seen it stream from the victims of so many conflicts, his eyes drifting out of focus at the delicious memories.

He smiled as he elicited a deep, tortured sigh from the Doctor's breast.

"What would you have me do?" the Time Lord countered, his voice rising. "No, don't tell me. It's always been so easy with you. You'd be fighting alongside the Daleks once more, wiping out all that was good about our people."

The Master's impassive calm was interrupted by an animalistic snarl.

"We _are_ all that was good about our people, you idiot, you and I. High Gallifreyans, born and bred. It was like a game to them, letting two opposing views loose upon the Universe and watching us scrabble and fight in the dirt, betting on which of us would win. Why else did we escape so easily back then?"

The two Time Lords stood face to face, as they had done countless times before, both defined by their opposition to the other. Yet now there seemed to be some terrible wordless consensus between them that no matter how they each argued their case, the end result would be no different.

"I'm a survivor," the Master gloated, pride swelling his already imposing bulk. He threw his unfinished cigarette to the floor, where it ceased to exist. "That's why we will still be here when they're not, because when push came to shove we made the choice to let other people die so that we may live."

The Doctor remained silent, his eyes darting across the Master's features, looking for something that set the two of them apart, needing the comfort of something alien to him self.

The Master's diatribe was relentless, as if the years trapped in the netherworld of the TARDIS memory had merely been a hiatus, waiting for this one moment when his arguments would triumph over sanity.

"They're out there now, waiting for you to fulfil the destiny they've carved out for you. Too cowardly to make the final, supreme sacrifice on their own governance, they've elected you as their murderer. That's the kind of people we abandoned, the bloodline I revel in and that you despise. You've been set a place in the great and ignoble pantheon of tyrants. Omega, Rassilon, and The Doctor. They've watched us with their customary wry amusement, battling across Time and Space, thrust and counter-thrust, yet neither of us truly triumphant or vanquished. They simply couldn't deny themselves that pleasure."

"That's rubbish and you know it," interrupted the Doctor, defiance in his stance. "You know I've never been truly off the leash as far as the High Council was concerned."

The Master waved a dismissive hand, sending the Doctor flinching back against the console.

"True, you've served your time, run a few errands, been put through the mill on a few occasions, but you lived to fight another day. The days of the Death Zone have far from ended, Doctor, they've simply been played out by you and I, while they sit in their beloved Capitol, vicariously deriving pleasure from their _laissez faire_ attitude. Until the Time War rattled them out of their myopic view of the Universe. Only then did the Game Of Rassilon finally begin." He paused, filling with admiration. "And what a game it is!"

The Doctor whirled, turning his back on his rival's insistent gaze, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, not caring that his cufflinks flew wildly across the flight deck, but instead busying himself at the levers and switches. Even facing away from the Master, the cold eyes made their presence felt, like a shadow on a summer's day.

"Bravo, bravo," the Master cried. "You might have taken away my body but I can still touch you, eh?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "It's ironic, really. All those wasted centuries trying to prevent me from wreaking havoc, and then you're here, about to trump me with an act so callous it makes my efforts look like scrumping for apples. God help me, I almost admire you for it."

The Doctor carried on his task regardless, single-mindedly refusing to grant the Master his full attention.

"I don't want your admiration," he said quietly.

"Tough, you've got it anyway. Of course, you've bored me with your hand-wringing and midnight remorse. All those tears, all that mooning about, the doubt. Boring!"

"It's what makes us different, Master. You'd see Heaven burn just to warm your hands."

There was an empty chuckle that rattled throughout the console room like a dying breath.

"Oh, I think I'm going to be warm as toast before very long, don't you?"

In that moment, both men's eyes fell upon the Doctor's hand as it hovered over the switch that had emerged from the oaken surface of the TARDIS console, the delicate fingers twitching. A drop of sweat fell, staining the wood a dark red.

"Go on, brother Time Lord," the Master whispered, wishing he had the substance to throw the switch himself, envy in his words. "Make me proud."


End file.
